God, I don't know what to do. I have my life being stretched in five hundred directions, and I can't figure out which one is the right one. I feel a shadow approaching my life, and I'm not sure what is causing it.
My skin is callosed, and so I can't feel. My soul is callosed. I'm almost numb to my emotions to the point that I don't even care. Arguements don't bother me; I just don't give a flying fuck. My future is so uncertain that I don't even pay attention.
Journal
Page 65, 3.30 am, Saturday, 8th of November, 2oo3
"... I enjoy the solitude."
Now I don't even get solitude. The girlfriend doesn't even understand when I want some time alone. I'm feeling burnt out, stressed and tired. My nerves are frazzled, and my patients has ran dry.
pg. 95 Wednesday, November 19th, 2oo3
"Last cig... great. I smoked a lot more before when I first got here, but I am more dependant on them now. Little threads of enjoyment is something I grasp with desperate hands. And even those things can go sour. So much has gone sour. My thinking is poisoned. I lie to people I talk to from home telling them all is welll because that is all the want to hear, and what they expect, especially after all the talk I spewed about it and all my childish optomism I had before and during my first month here (or maybe only the first few weeks). But just as cigs soon smell toxic and disgusting, so has my outlook..."
pg. 96, same day
"Now I'm eating my own blind enthusiasm. In a great situation I still am unhappy. I am not made of what I thought I was. I am fading, every day becoming less present. Even my highs don't last long enough. I am already ready to smoke myself to oblivion. Poof...gone."
I don't think my condition has gotten much bettere even after anti-depressants and a good girlfriend and such... fuck...
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